


starboy

by idolrapper (wonwoo)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonwoo/pseuds/idolrapper
Summary: His chest is tight, and anger bubbles up inside of him again, and then Donghyuck glances up at him, and says, voice eerily melodic, “To die would be an awfully big adventure, don't you think, Mark Lee?” and the red fizzles out beneath his rib-cage like a soda gone flat. He feels old.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _i ask myself what am i doing here?_
> 
> please don't be startled by the sudden magical realism and the complete lack of relationship development. donghyuck as peter pan can also be taken as a metaphor if you'd like, it's up to you whether it's real or not.

This boy comes into the store every Thursday, at the end of the school day. One pocket weighed down with coins, the other with candy, the kind that stick in your molars and colour your tongue in sickly-sweet esters. The name tag on his backpack says, in bright green highlighter, _Donghyuck_. He's in the year below Mark. 

Last term, Donghyuck's class didn't have a teacher _or_ a substitute teacher, and all twenty kids had been shuffled into Mark's homeroom. Mark remembers Donghyuck leaning against the wall, his legs splayed wide, while the other kids tried to take up as little space as possible, their knees tucked in close, spines curled over shrivelling autumn leaves. The teacher had rolled in a dusty television stand from the storeroom. It looked older than Mark, straining under the weight of the television, a mammoth thing that caused Yeri's red hair to stand on end when she passed it by, tip-toeing around the landmine of eleventh graders to return to her desk. The teacher pushed in a VCR of Disney's _Tarzan_ , and Donghyuck had spent the whole class commentating the film. At the end, he left the classroom, bellowing, “JANE LEFT ENGLAND FOR LOVE!”

Thursdays, after school, go like this:

Mark sits on the stool behind the counter, twirling a pen in his hand with the same speed he would a basketball on his fingertip. He idly makes his way through a slab of chemistry equations. He has a test on redox reactions tomorrow. Boss-lady leaves the store for her daily tea and gossip with the other boss-ladies in Koreatown. There's the cook from the barbecue restaurant in the food court, the jeweller who owns a tiny overflowing cart in the centre of the courtyard, the baker who sneaks Mark fresh _ggul tteok_ on the weekends. 

Donghyuck walks in, eyes inquisitive, hands already extending out to grab and inspect. No matter how many times Mark tells himself he should stop Donghyuck from getting his grubby fingers on the stock, the words stick in his throat. He winces when Donghyuck runs his hand through the rack of _chima_ , mouth wide with awe as though he's leaning over a rowboat and watching his hand cut through the clear water. But he stays silent. Watches Donghyuck aimlessly peruse through rows upon rows of _hanbok_. Smacks his grape-flavoured gum, the sound like the crack of a whip. Donghyuck window-shops for half an hour, exactly, but always meanders over to the counter and picks out one of the cheapest trinkets there. Keychains, rings that are more green than silver, postcards boasting picturesque views of Jeju-do; the kind of paraphernalia shopkeepers try to tempt buyers into grabbing last minute. 

“Could you wrap it up?” Donghyuck asks, rocking back and forth on his heels, his school shoes squeaking on the linoleum. He looks like he might fly away at any moment if he could.

Mark blinks. He blows a bubble so big it eclipses half his face, and _smack_. “Why?”

“Don't ask me questions, Mark,” Donghyuck says, leaning forward on the counter. Some would say his eyes sparkle with mischief. But Mark likes to be original, and Mark thinks Donghyuck's eyes are like stars. They died a million years ago.

“Fine,” Mark huffs, peeling the gum from his mouth. Five minutes later, he hands Donghyuck the package, smothered in Christmas wrapping paper with a slapdash bow stuck to the top. “There you go.”

 

 

One Thursday—when the air is starting to stick and Mark doesn't feel like seventeen-year-old Mark anymore but a Mark who doesn't have a care in the world, who spent summers floating on a swimming pool until the moon hung in the sky, the stars glittering across the blue surface like pixie dust—three customers enter the store: a girl, around sixteen, in red converse and a plaid school skirt and hair that tumbles over her shoulders, watery and ink-dark. A man, donning a navy suit and a grey tie and black eye-bags. Donghyuck, his tattered backpack heaving with every step he takes.

He's barely an inch past the threshold when his eyes widen, and he ducks behind a rack, backpack swaying like a pendulum, _tick tock_. Mark lowers his gel pen and raises an eyebrow at him. Donghyuck pulls a face, his eyebrows scrunching up, and jabs his thumb in the direction of the girl. _Sister_ , he mouths. Mark squints at him. He's not allowed to be here?

“You're not allowed to be here?” Mark whispers, as Donghyuck scuttles closer. His sister is sifting through a rack in the furthest corner of the shop. 

Donghyuck's mouth twists. His knees look close to crumbling, bony as they are. “It's not that, I—”

“Do you have a larger size?” Suit-man comes up to the counter, a _hanbok_ set draped over his arm.

“Uh, yes, we do,” Mark stutters. He looks over at Donghyuck's sister, and then at Donghyuck, hissing, “Out back.”

Donghyuck trips after him. “Stay here,” Mark tells him. Donghyuck shoots him a thumbs-up. 

 

 

“We analysed Peter Pan in English today,” Donghyuck declares, on the last Thursday of the school year. Mark can taste graduation on his tongue. 

Inexplicably, he feels the desire to reach over the counter and pinch Donghyuck's cheeks until he leaves welts. “Did you like it?” Mark asks, instead. 

“No,” Donghyuck concludes, after a moment. He shakes a snow-globe of the Namsan Tower. “It was too sad.”

“It was too sad,” Mark echoes. 

His chest is tight, and anger bubbles up inside of him again, and then Donghyuck glances up at him, and says, voice eerily melodic, “To die would be an awfully big adventure, don't you think, Mark Lee?” and the red fizzles out beneath his rib-cage like a soda gone flat. He feels old.

“Why did you hide from your sister?” Mark blurts out because he doesn't know what to say.

“Why's your hair rainbow-coloured?” Donghyuck shoots backs. The snow settles at the bottom of Seoul. "Looks dumb.” 

Marks sticks his tongue out. Donghyuck mirrors him. Then he places the snow-globe on top of Mark's chemistry textbook. The book lays flat on the counter, the spine broken. 

“What if I told you that you don't need to study?” Donghyuck says, "What if I told you I was immortal?”

Laughter escapes Mark's lips, the sound tinkling and scattered. “I'd tell you that you're crazy.”

“Am not,” Donghyuck argues, with all the flair of a petulant child. He then smirks. “I'll answer your question, in return for a favour.”

“Okay,” Mark says, before he can snatch the word back. Donghyuck speaks like they're playing jump rope, double dutch, and he'd been waiting for Mark to finally trip up. 

“I hid from my sister because she doesn't know I've been taking the Lost Boys things from Earth. She'll be pissed 'cause I used all the pocket money we get from foster Dad number thirteen.” Donghyuck puffs up his chest. “She's the Queen of Neverland.”

Mark's mouth slowly falls open. His gum drops onto his textbook. Donghyuck stretches forward to push his chin up, Mark's teeth clamping shut. He shakes his head. “You're joking around.”

“Am not,” Donghyuck repeats. “Do you wanna know the other reason I didn't like Peter Pan? That nutcase got it all wrong. The Lost Boys already have a mother.” Donghyuck scowls, drawling, “And Taeyong used to give me swirlies in the boys' bathroom until he graduated four years ago. He doesn't come to Neverland anymore, I'm _bored_.” 

“Okay?” Mark mutters, pushing his chair back. It screeches on the floor. “So what do you need from _me_?”

“My favour,” Donghyuck says, holding out his fist. It unfurls, and in the centre of his palm is a ring, more green than silver. “A kiss.”

“We're not kissing _here_ ,” Mark hisses.

“So you'd kiss me somewhere else?” Donghyuck grins, tugging on Mark's left hand.

The tips of Mark's ears burn red. “That's not what I meant.” He belatedly draws back his hand to see the corroded band around his ring finger. 

“Come with me,” Donghyuck whispers. Boss-lady walks into the store, her beady eyes watching them. “Jeno's already planning a summer wedding.”

Mark twists the ring, around and around and around until he feels nauseous. “I'm seventeen,” he announces. It should be a sufficient answer. He can't run away. He can't get _married_. He doesn't even know who Jeno is.

“Come with me,” Donghyuck repeats. He blows in Mark's face, a slight gush of shimmering air, and Mark levitates a few centimetres above his seat. He gasps and grabs onto the counter, trying to push himself down. “Jane left England for Tarzan. Wendy left England for Peter Pan." Boss-lady weaves through the clothing racks, swift as a crocodile. Mark lets go of the counter. “You could leave Vancouver for—” 

“Yes,” Mark exclaims, rounding the counter. He can taste freedom on his tongue. “But you have to bring me back. Never is an—”

“Awfully long time, I know,” Donghyuck says. His right iris twinkles as holds out his hand. “Let's live, Mark Lee.” 


End file.
